Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

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The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

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Let the dead Past bury its dead!

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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

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Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

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In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the sweet and soothing hour of twilight, the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest, when we think of those we love only to regret that we have not loved them more dearly, when we remember our enemies only to forgive them.

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This song of mine Is a song of the vine To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. and For the richest and best Is the wind of the West That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a bension on the giver. and When you ask one friend to dine, Give hime your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do.

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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

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I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions

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Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

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Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

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The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.

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Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!

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The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

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